


So they say

by DeVereWinterton



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Australian Slang, British Slang, Expressions, F/M, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Multi, Prompt Fic, Slang, Smut, The advent fic that wasn't an advent fic, implied threesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 14:48:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18501199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: “Oh, there are several things I would like to say.” – Minerva McGonagallShort fics – varying in rating – based on 1920’s and 1930’s slang phrases, which were used as prompts. Mostly Phrack, but I tried to deviate from our favourite couple once or twice…Rated M for Magnificent, possibly E in future for Extraordinaire.





	1. Absent Treatment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should explain something before we get started. This fic idea originally started out as an advent fic back in December. I chose 31 slang phrases from the 1920s and 1930s, respectively, to use as prompts for 31 chapters. I chose a few months as goal-months. I compiled a list. Each chapter would be its own short story, or fragment of a story – not a continuation of the previous – and each one would be around 1000 words in length. 
> 
> Needless to say, I did not meet these demands I placed upon myself because of various factors in my personal life. I have been rather out of touch with Phrack, and because I quite liked the chapters I’d already written, I have decided to at least post those within the next few weeks, and see where it takes me. There are 31 days in a month, 31 prompts, and 31 ideas. There may be 31 chapters, there may not be. Either way, I hope you’ll enjoy what I have written so far.

 

As the music from the small orchestra surged, more couples found their way to the dancefloor. The ballroom was filled to capacity, the guests dressed to the nines; the women in exquisite floor-length gowns, and the men in dapper, well-cut suits. All of Adelaide’s elite were gathered here tonight to celebrate the birthday of one Eleanor Darwin-Wedgwood.

Their hostess was the glowing centre of attention this evening, but she wasn’t the reason why the two detectives were attending this soirée.

Phryne suspected the niece of their esteemed hostess was up to something, especially after another wealthy relative had wound up dead under questionable circumstances in Melbourne just three weeks ago. The young woman had been missing during the murder investigation. In addition, rare artefacts had disappeared from several family homes at the same time. The whole thing smelled like an inside job.

Jack had reluctantly agreed to accompany Miss Fisher, if only to keep an eye on her.

Phryne’s oxblood-coloured, beaded dress sparkled in the soft, warm light from the crystal chandeliers.

One of her hands was nestled in Jack’s large palm, while the other rested comfortably on his almost ridiculously broad shoulder. The man really did fill out a suit, or in this case, a tuxedo. Never quite able to resist a thing of beauty, she gave the firm muscles underneath her fingertips a gentle squeeze. His eyes immediately met hers, an unspoken question in them; he was wondering if she’d noticed anything suspicious. As they turned and twirled, she shook her head minutely, and he raised an eyebrow. When she shrugged infinitesimally, she noticed he couldn’t contain the small smirk, tugging at his lips.

The intimacy of which was not lost on her; her heart swelled in time with the music.

To the untrained eye, Mr. Francis Walker - art dealer and Jack’s undercover persona - was a bit of an awkward man, an inexperienced dancer shuffling across the floor.

Phryne knew better. She noticed each time Jack purposefully missed a step, or almost stepped on her toes. He played his character well. Mr. Walker wore glasses, and his curly hair was free and unrestrained by pomade. Though he seemed every bit the clumsy man he was supposed to portray, there was no uncertainty in the way Jack held her body tight against his. The hand splayed on her upper back was burning her skin through the silk of her dress. He was focused, intense, and looked utterly delicious in his evening wear.

She couldn't help but wonder where a man like Jack Robinson had learned to dance the tango. In order for him to purposefully miss steps, he first had to _know_ them. And know them, he did. This particular tango was much too tame for Phryne’s liking, but being in Jack’s arms made up for any lack of grace.

She was about to query him regarding his dancing skills, perhaps tease him, when she noticed something behind her had caught his eye. He briefly peered over her shoulder, his attention momentarily diverted, then quickly returned his attention back to her.

She could barely make out the words murmured under his breath. “She’s in the back, near the door to the kitchen.”

Phryne began to turn around to look for herself, but Jack’s hand on her back pulled her closer to his rigid frame. As he did so, one long finger inadvertently touched the lower curve of her spine; she had to bite her cheek to stop herself from encouraging him to move it further down.

She’d been holding back during this undercover assignment, had _tried_ not to seduce him in this city, away from home, yet after all this time he was still making her--

“ _Wait._ ” It was a whisper, a warning, moments before his hands tightened imperceptibly. Without preamble, he suddenly dipped her.

It was a modest dip; nevertheless, the air rushed from her lungs at this bold move, executed to perfection.

 _Who_ was _this man?_

When he pulled her back up, a tad rough and unrefined, Phryne felt breathless, her cheeks were flushed and her breasts were pressed intimately against his chest. Once upright, oxygen finally made its way into her air-starved lungs. She absently wondered if he could feel the way her nipples hardened sharply to tight peaks on his chest.

In light of their proximity, she had the sudden urge to drop this case. Surely the rapid beating of Jack’s heart required an immediate and thorough investigation?

Perhaps mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?

“Fern?”

His voice was remarkably husky, his solemn eyes burned.

“Yes?”

He leaned in, his breath hot on her ear.

“ _Now._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Absent Treatment: dancing with a shy person, inexperienced dancer or awkward partner._


	2. Creep Joint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to 221A_brina for the beta on this chapter (and the previous one)!

 

When she slammed the door behind her, the walls of their once shared home vibrated with the pent-up frustration, until long after she’d left.

Jack sighed deeply.

That had not gone well. But then again, had he expected otherwise? He’d hoped to avoid an argument, but she was just so damn stubborn, and butting heads had been inevitable. He knew he hadn’t exactly been compliant, let alone willing to compromise, but could she blame him? Could anyone?

Wasn’t she supposed to be the daughter of an upstanding police Commissioner? What had happened to obeying the law, and following the rules? Surely she was aware that there was something in the law books regarding the penalties for lying under oath?

She’d demanded one thing from him; a lie. She expected him to tell the courtroom how he, Detective Inspector John ‘Jack’ Robinson, had been unfaithful. That he had slept with another woman behind her back.

Jack snorted at the irony. He hadn’t lain with a woman - let alone his own damn wife - in close to a year now. He’d laugh if he weren’t so utterly miserable.

He wasn’t opposed to a little white lie every once in a while. Jack was well aware of the way of the world, and that first and foremost, people would take care of themselves and their own interests. He was no different. Though there were times work could get in the way of self care.

He, however, _was_ a man of noble standards. A man with principles. A man with a good heart. Lying about infidelity wasn’t merely an innocent lie, a circumvention of the truth. It was the _one thing_ that, if delivered convincingly, _could_ and most certainly _would_ change his marital status, thereby ending this chapter of his life forever.

In his mind, Jack knew their relationship had come to an end - that neither of them were getting anything out of this facade, this shadow of a marriage – but his heart hadn’t quite gotten there yet. The thought of being alone again, truly alone…

He shook his head and ran his hand over his brow.

He was suddenly overcome by a feeling of intense loneliness, an aching emptiness he hadn't felt since returning home from the War. The brutal realisation that things were never going to be the same again hit him like a ton of bricks. Just like it had back then. ~~~~

Rosie had moved away to live with her sister some five months ago. Their house was cold these days. But he’d be lying to himself if he claimed it had only gone cold since she left. Things between them had been… different, for some time now. Not hostile, but the warmth that had once existed between them, the flutter of eyelids, the soft kisses, longing glances, heated caresses… He honestly couldn't recall any of that happening after the War.

They’d tried, but to no avail.

Things had changed, shifted beyond repair, yet neither was to blame. It was a burden that hung over them, one they had carried together, in silence, until she could no longer bear it, forcing her to leave.

She’d always been the brave one.

 

 

Jack left the house later that night, hoping to find some solace at the bottom of a bottle of whatever was strong enough to make him forget. Something that might stop him from feeling anything at all.

He found it. Once he’d paid for his third tumbler of whiskey, he silently ordered  his legs to carry him out of the pub while he still had an ounce of respect. He’d barely managed it, allowing his feet to lead him aimlessly through the dark streets and alleys of Melbourne. ~~~~

When he stopped, it dawned on him where he was. He’d never been to this particular house of ill repute, but knew of it due to his line of work.

Jack knew entering this establishment could possibly tarnish his reputation. Then again, telling a judge about fabricated extramarital escapades probably wasn’t going to keep it spotless either. He shrugged. What was stopping him from turning those lies into truth? He felt he was on the verge of losing control of everything he once knew and held dear. He was blind drunk, and in desperate need of some sort of release. Anything beyond that quickly ceased to matter.

He approached the door on the side of the building with caution and apprehension. An uneasy feeling settled in his gut. He knew that once he knocked on that door, there would be no turning back. Nothing to stop him from committing an actual act of debauchery.

Suddenly, lying about infidelity didn’t seem so bad. It still felt wrong on many levels, true, but the thought of a strange woman touching him intimately actually sent shivers down his spine. He knew it was something he would come to regret. Maybe not right away, but it would come back to haunt him. A marriage was still a marriage.

He quickly turned on his heel and melted into the darkness.

Something had to happen. He was in desperate need of a change.

 

Little did he know, that very change would arrive the next day. At his crime scene. In the bathroom of one John Andrews.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Creep Joint: a brothel._


	3. Quilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I enjoy writing misleading chapters.

 

Phryne was staring into the fire Mr. Butler had lit in the parlour fireplace earlier that evening, head resting comfortably on Jack’s shoulder. She’d carelessly kicked off her shoes after dinner - ignoring his raised eyebrow at the impropriety of it - and settled herself beside him on her chaise longue, her thigh pressing snugly against his.

He’d made no protest or effort to move, permitting her closeness.

They weren’t speaking. Often times she found she almost enjoyed the quiet moments with Jack more than all the others combined. She allowed herself the luxury of the moment, intensely aware of the gentle rise and fall of his chest, his steady breaths, his intoxicating scent, his warm body beside hers. The simple domesticity of it all should have frightened her, or annoyed her at the very least. Yet, somehow, it didn’t. It felt… cosy.

She lifted her head slightly to look at him. His eyes were trained on the burning embers, the flickering light illuminating some of his features, while hiding others in harsh shadows. She hesitated, not wanting to break the silence, but he seemed to be presenting her with yet another mystery. And she did so love solving those.

Phryne snuggled back into his comforting warmth. “What do you think of it, Jack?” She could feel the slight movement of his head as he turned towards her.

“It's… warm.” His breath tickled a few loose strands of her hair.

“It is,” she agreed, voice soft, yet expectant.  

“It's very nice,” Jack was quick to add.

She smiled. _Dear man_. Always worried about committing a _faux pas_. “Just nice?” Phryne teased, unable to resist as she sat up and looked him in the eyes.

He regarded her for a few moments. That familiar tilt of his head doing all number of  things to her, most of which were probably illegal. And if they weren’t, they damn well should be.

“Well, it is very well made,” he conceded.

“It was made with you in mind,” she purred at him, carefully placing a delicate hand on his knee.

“Hmmm.” She could tell he was considering both her statement and the placement of her hand - could almost see the cogs turning in his head. “I like it. It has a many layers.”

“Just like you, Inspector.”

He cocked his head in her direction, a slight grin beginning to curve the corner of his mouth. “I’m hardly a complicated man, Miss Fisher. I like my meat with potatoes and vegetables.”

She inclined her head. “And your whiskey in feigned moderation.”

“Hmmm,” he concurred, giving her a single nod.

“ _I_ would say quite the opposite is true, Inspector. I believe you're a man of many layers, and many mysteries.”

“Oh?”

 _“Mmm_ , yes.” Phryne leaned in, her breast pressing into his arm. If Jack noticed, he didn’t bat an eye. “It’s a good thing I'm an accomplished detective,” she said, her voice dropping a few octaves.

Jack quirked an eyebrow. “Is it, now?” he inquired huskily, goading her.

Phryne narrowed her eyes at him, but only briefly. She stroked a hand down his lapel. She was instantly rewarded for her bold move by the quickening of his breath. She could feel his chest moving under her fingertips.

“Yes. I get to peel away those layers, like an onion, and find out what lies beneath.”

Jack immediately appeared offended, but she could tell it was all in jest.

His brow furrowed. “An onion, Miss Fisher? Surely there’s something more flattering than that to describe me?”

“I’m sure there is…” she said, barely breathing, her tongue moistening her red-slicked lips.

Jack coughed, averting his eyes. “It’s… quite intricate. With a variety of patterns to it. And the colour is so vibrant, I can almost taste it.”

“What does it taste like, Jack?” she couldn't help but ask.

When he spoke next, his voice was dark and raspy. Husky, and heady. Phryne was intoxicated by it, addicted to the sound of it. Focusing on the hot, licking flames of the fire, she could feel his warm breath on her ear.

“I suppose at first, it feels very new. Some might say it’s an acquired taste, others won’t be able to get enough of it.” He paused. “There is an earthiness to it, something that keeps you grounded as the heady, dark undertones tempt you towards sin. But patience is a virtue, Miss Fisher. You might wish to lap at it, greedily drink it in, but you cannot, one must enjoy these sensations, these multifaceted experiences, and savour them.”

Phryne shuddered, sensing Jack about to take a deep breath before continuing. “But when you take your time, appreciate the buildup, the culmination of utter pleasure… your reward will be that final, most intense flavour of all, bursting on the tip of your tongue, and flooding your mouth.”

“I see,” she panted hoarsely.

Jack moved back slightly as Phryne tried to regain control of her breathing, and brain. The rest of her body, however,  was a lost cause.

“What do _you_ think of it, Miss Fisher?” Jack whispered, his pupils dilated, his breathing shallow.

Instead of answering, Phryne stood up from the chaise. She plucked the empty glass from his fingers - without protest - and set it on the side table. They both appeared to have lost interest in the exquisite cocktail Mr. Butler had concocted, despite it being created per her request with Jack in mind. She smirked in triumph when Jack’s hands tentatively came to rest on her hips.

She grabbed the hemline of her dress, lifting it mid-thigh. Jack sat back, clearly approving of this latest development, so she bunched the material around her waist, exposing stocking tops, garters and silk knickers to his hungry gaze. His eyes darkened visibly, while her quim throbbed with primal need.

“ _I_ think… we should put that talented tongue of yours to work, Inspector.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Quilt: an alcoholic beverage that keeps you warm._
> 
> I was trying to be clever, writing stuff I hoped could refer to both a quilt and an actual drink, and I’m not sure it worked, but there you have it.


	4. Half-seas over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask. I don't know how this happened.

 

When Jack woke that morning, it was to a splitting headache and an overall feeling of sluggishness.

Last night they’d celebrated Phryne’s birthday with an extravagant party. And there had been So. Many. Drinks. He vaguely recalled starting the evening off with whiskey. Sherry after that. Then there was a charming little cocktail (or three) appropriately called a ‘Corpse Reviver.’ Mr. Butler was known to be a bit generous with the brandy (or any kind of alcoholic beverage). It was all a blur after that.

His head was pounding. It felt like Miss Fisher was stomping all over his poor, tortured brain. Wearing heels.

Turning over onto his side, he realised he was in said lady’s bed. This had been happening with increased frequency since her return to Melbourne, close to a year ago. Soft snores alerted him to her presence, and when he opened his bloodshot eyes he expected to see a dishevelled mop of dark hair.

What he found… was not that.

_And… was that his pyjama shirt?_

Biting his lip and praying, Jack checked - just to make sure - that he was, at the very least, still wearing a stitch of clothing below the waist. He breathed a sigh of relief when his fingers encountered the waistband of the silk pyjamas Phryne had gotten him for Christmas.

He discovered, however, he was sans smalls.

That was… disconcerting, but not altogether unusual. He would omit underwear on occasion. Nowadays, he knew it would often be a moot point to wear them to bed since Phryne was bound to take them off anyway, and--

_Oh, dear God._

Had he done the unthinkable? The unimaginable?

On the other side of the bed, Elizabeth Macmillan opened her eyes, aware of movement close to her. She blinked several times before noticing the heavy state of her limbs, the nausea, and a blinding headache.

Being a methodical woman, she assessed the current status of things.

_Underwear? Check._

_Shirt? Check._

She opened her eyes.

_A **man** in her bed?_

“Hmmmm,” Mac noted, alerting her bed partner as she raised her head.

Jack turned to face her, utter shock laced with mild panic clouding his features.

“What do you mean, ‘hmmmm’?!” he hissed under his breath.

Mac sighed. She was more than familiar with this level of panic-induced agitation from him. She’d seen it most often when he was around Phryne. She noticed he was squinting against the strip of sunlight streaming into the room through the curtains, and presumed his hangover wasn't helping.

_Speaking of which; this was not her bedroom._

“Well Inspector, you must admit; this is interesting, to say the least.”

Jack coughed, trying to disguise the awkwardness he felt, and failed miserably.

“Do you remember anything that happened last night?” he asked, his voice raspy, his throat sore.

“You mean aside from the copious amounts of alcohol and Bert dancing on the table top without his trousers? No, not a whole lot,” Mac grunted, then winced. “And honestly, _that_ is a memory I could do without.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them.

“Did we…?” Jack barely managed to choke out when he couldn't stand it any longer. Apart from being too horrified to actually finish that question (out loud anyway), he also realised that - outside of her regular profession - he had no idea how to address the good doctor in such a… _delicate_ situation.

And gods, his mouth was oh so very dry.

Now… she was definitely hungover, but even in her slightly inebriated state Elizabeth Macmillan was absolutely positive that she did not have sexual relations, of any kind last night. She'd seen the Inspector naked once, after he'd been injured on the job in Phryne's absence. She'd assisted him in getting in the shower before redressing his bandages. He was a fit man in every sense of the word, handsome, even. Had she been so inclined, and been the kind of woman to fall for a man, she might have even called him desirable. And had he been _inside_ her last night, she _would_ have known, _regardless_ of the amount of alcohol she'd consumed.

The human body was a great source of evidence, and it never lied.

“I can safely say we did not,” she said, gently rubbing her thighs together, confirming what she already knew.

“Oh, thank God.” Jack breathed a sigh of relief, as he rubbed a hand over his tired face.

“Charming as always, Inspector,” Mac snorted dryly.

Jack sat up quickly, too quickly, and instantly regretted it when Thor’s hammer struck the inside of his head with brute force. He groaned, massaging his temples in an effort to ease the pain. As the bedsheet dropped to his waist, he thought he could feel her eyes on his bare chest, but he wasn't particularly sure of anything this morning.

_Had there been champagne, as well? A fountain of some sort?_

“I’m sorry… that was inconsiderate of me. I didn't mean to imply-- I mean, it’s not that you’re an unattractive woman,” Jack sputtered, blushing. Why were _words_ so _difficult_?! “It’s just… Miss Fisher… Phryne and I, we--” He was gesticulating wildly, feeling like a blubbering fool who was breaking up with his first girlfriend.

Mac managed to raise an eyebrow, slowly propping herself up on her side, her loose red curls framing her face.

_She really_ was _attractive,_ Jack thought before he could stop himself. She looked softer almost, without her daily armour, her masculine attire.

He couldn't help but notice the way the sheet had slipped down her body with her movements. Even though she was wearing his button-up pyjama shirt, the realisation that she was in fact a woman, suddenly hit him. He felt like an idiot. _Of course she was a woman!_ But in all the time he’d known her, he could honestly say he'd never noticed her… feminine form before.

Her breasts were larger than Phryne's, filling out his shirt quite nicely. How had he never noticed this before? He wondered if they were as soft as Phryne's? And how would they be different?

Chastising himself, he quickly averted his eyes.

“It’s alright, Jack. No need to stammer yourself to death. I have enough work as it is.”

Was that smugness he heard in her voice?

He turned back to look at her, curious.

Mac smiled at him. “I think it might be best if we didn’t mention this to Phryne. That is to say, if we make it out of this bed alive,” Mac suggested as she gestured between the two of them. She yawned, closing her eyes against the pounding headache that followed before burrowing back under the covers.

Jack was about to agree wholeheartedly, when movement coming from the general vicinity of the foot of the bed alerted the conversing duo. He vaguely registered Mac’s groan when a messy, sleep-tousled bob, followed by the bleary-eyed face of the woman they both loved, popped up at their feet.

_Ah! So_ that’s _what happened to the bedspread_ , Jack thought absent-mindedly.

She looked tired, but satisfied, and there was a far too knowing, salacious smirk on her face.

“Not mention _what_ to Phryne?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Half-seas over: shitfaced/very, VERY drunk._
> 
> _Corpse Reviver  
>  Its name is horrific, but that's because this cocktail family's motto is "cheers to the hair of the dog that bit you." The Corpse Reviver, made of cognac, brandy, and sweet vermouth, and its sister Corpse Reviver #2, made of gin, lemon juice, triple sec, Lillet, and absinthe, were meant as hangover cures. (They'd revive your corpse, you see.) They were essentially seen as medicinal in their earliest days, and are believed to reach back as far as the 1860s. However, the Corpse Revivers cemented their place in the Prohibition era by being catalogued in the 1930 Savoy Cocktail Handbook._


	5. Bearcat

 

When Phryne first laid eyes on Concetta Fabrizi, she hadn’t been sure what to make of the situation. Jack had been present, dining at the Italian restaurant. And then there had been the _incident_ , the accusations, the threats at gunpoint. And Concetta, helping Jack into his coat. She’d held onto his hand until he’d walked away.

Phryne could recall with ease the pang of jealousy she’d felt at the time. It wasn’t so bad, these days, to admit that she’d been envious. Jack’s mention of ‘old friends’ certainly had not improved matters. If anything, it had only added fuel to the flames of the green fire, burning inside of her.

It had not been her finest hour. Or day. Week, even.

She supposed Concetta had probably seen straight through her ruse of dining at the restaurant in order to help the investigation along. After all, hadn’t she immediately asked if there was something Phryne had wanted? The woman was clever. She had a sharp mind, and was not afraid to speak it. It was something Phryne had, albeit grudgingly, admired about her from the start.

Phryne could see what characteristics had attracted Jack to Concetta.

Not to mention that Concetta Fabrizi was absolutely beautiful. Phryne was confident enough of her own beauty to admit that the woman had a certain allure; she had a grace and a poise about her that were charming.

She’d always considered herself a strong woman, and had immediately recognised a similar quality in the Italian beauty. A willingness to fight for those she loved, for what she believed in. For what she believed was right. She was… independent, but in a way that differed from Phryne’s own sense of independence. Concetta did not _need_ a husband, but she’d clearly _wanted_ Jack, and had gone after him. She was a woman who knew what she liked, and when she found it, went for it. It was all very traditional, wanting a husband, yet the fact that Concetta had actively pursued Jack herself was almost inspiring.

Phryne had been very aware that Concetta could offer Jack everything that she, herself, could not. Would not. Stability, a marriage, demure domesticity, a wife to cook him his meals… possibly give him children.

Concetta had inadvertently – and likely, unbeknownst to her - made Phryne realise the depth of her feelings for Jack. She supposed the expression of ‘not knowing what one had until it was gone’ could be applied here.

She’d suddenly felt a fear of losing him that was, if at all possible, even greater than any time his life had been at stake in the past. Losing Jack to another woman would have been bearable, in the end. She would have found a way to cope. But Phryne knew herself all too well. She would have started seeing him less and less, coming up with excuses, until he was nothing but a distant memory.

But she would never forgive herself for letting him go without a fight. If she did, part of her would have always regretted it.

Not long ago, Jack had told her of his time with Concetta. He’d recently separated from Rosie, and Concetta had lost her husband. They were both lonely and he'd found it harder and harder to resist her companionship, their conversations, her support and ultimately, her body. He insisted it had only happened once prior to his meeting Phryne, who found his insistence endearing, because really, he didn’t need to justify his actions. He had just put the home he and Rosie had shared for the last 16 years up for sale, and only just moved into his cottage the week before when Concetta had shown up on his doorstep, a bouquet of flowers in hand.

Those flowers had never made it into a vase.

Phryne had found it troubling to hear him speak about another woman with obvious affection, but not as unsettling as she’d expected it to be. She’d mostly felt a certain kind of joy, a happiness that he had someone to help him through a difficult time in his life.

Concetta had loved Jack; Phryne knew this with an almost absolute certainty. But Concetta had also loved him enough to let him go when she realised his heart belonged to someone else. Phryne, in turn, loved Concetta dearly for that. It had brought her the love of her life, after all.

Jack’s head rested in her lap, the weight of it comforting her, making her realise that this was all real. That he was here, in the now, with her. Finding peace and solace in her presence, resting comfortably on the rug in front of his fireplace.

She carefully raked her fingers through his neatly pomaded hair, already looking a bit tousled from the constant donning and doffing of his hat throughout the day. She loved the feeling of the fine strands of his golden curls, as they flowed through her fingers like the waves of the ocean, or sand through an hourglass.

Time, however, had very little meaning here, in these precious moments they had together. Away from the world, the gossip, the judging stares.

“What are you thinking about so intently?” His low, rumbling voice broke the peaceful silence.

She could tell he was smiling, and couldn’t resist the slight tug she felt at her own lips. He didn’t even have to look at her, to know her.

“You,” she answered truthfully.

“Oh?” He sounded intrigued.

“Us.”

This seemed to interest him enough to get up from his prone position; he sat up on his knees to look at her. One side of his face was slightly wrinkled from the pleats in her skirt; the warm love in his sleepy eyes tugged at her heartstrings. He reached out to gently rub his thumb across her cheek in a small gesture of affection.

“Is there an us?” The hope in his voice made her fall for him all over again.

Covering the back of his hand with her own palm, she turned her head to kiss his fingers.

“I don’t think there ever hasn’t been.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Bearcat: a lively, spirited woman, possibly with a fiery streak._


	6. Bank's closed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I did not forget about this fic! I just… well. I mean, I _did_ forget about this fic. Kind of. I have been a bit out of touch with the MFMM fandom lately. Then, I accidentally stumbled upon Dr. Quinn. I remember seeing some episodes on TV when I was younger and being fascinated by it. The rest, as they say, is history.
> 
> They lured me in with their G/T-rated crap, gorgeous hair (both men and women), irresistible URST, bareback horse-riding, come hither eyes and honey-slicked lips. I’m easily led. And distracted, apparently. 
> 
> I might have to add a bit of M-rated fic to that fandom, you know, for SCIENCE.

 

When Phryne closed the door to his office behind her and turned to face him, Jack knew he was in trouble.

His office was his domain. He had to work here, for God’s sake. He knew she respected his private space, but only up to a point. This didn’t mean she wouldn’t try to push those boundaries a little. Or a lot. Granted, her little schemes did, on occasion, turn out to be quite pleasurable for both of them, but there was one thing for certain – she was a threat to his principles. She might have succeeded in eroding the walls of a few of them – particularly when she did that _wickedly_ clever thing with her tongue – but he was determined she would _not_ be permitted this one last bastion.

“Something you wanted, Miss Fisher?” he asked, unable to resist teasing her as he leaned back against his desk, folding his arms across his chest. This was _his_ territory, and he would defend it, down to the last casefile. 

“Oh, there are several things I _want_ , Jack,” she replied sultrily, approaching him with all the grace of a feline predator stalking its prey.

How she managed to look both elegant and dominant at the same time, he had no idea. He knew he liked it, though.

Jack cocked an eyebrow at her, fully aware this would only further antagonize her. “Really?” He uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on the edge of the desk, leaning back a little further.

The result was instantaneous. She was on him in a second, a flurry of creams and silks. Any further pretence forgotten, she all but pressed her body flush against his, her breasts within a hair’s breadth of his chest.

“Yes, you infuriating man, _really_ ,” she emphasized, fingers playing with the buttons on his waistcoat. He could smell her perfume; he knew _exactly_ where she’d dabbed it on that morning, and where he’d dabbed a small drop of it himself… right between those soft thighs.

“You were brilliant, interviewing Mr. Fawkes just now.”

_Ah, so that’s what had gotten under her skin._

When they’d become lovers, she’d told him how his commanding, sometimes intimidating presence aroused her. How she had lain in bed at times, thinking about his voice, his hands, his Darby’s… He’d never quite understood the appeal of using handcuffs in bed. That was, until she’d shown him.

“As a matter of fact, I think you deserve a reward, Inspector,” she purred at him. Her red lips looked entirely too enticing, and it would be so easy to wrap his arms around her, to give her the kiss she was clearly angling for…

But no. _No!_ He would not budge. This game was _his_ game, and he wasn’t willing to compromise on this - the sanctity of his office.

“I was just doing my job, Miss Fisher.”

“But _Jaaack_ ,” she whined, pulling hard on his lapels in an attempt to drag him closer still.

“Miss Fisherrr,” he warned, sternly.

“Yes, Jack?” she queried, false innocence lacing her voice.

“You’re fishing.”

“So what if I am?” she rebutted.

“Phryne,” he sighed, “we discussed this. No…” his voice fell to a rasping whisper, “displays of affection at the station.”

“Displays of affection?!” she guffawed in his face.

“You know what I mean,” he grunted, straightening and easing her back a bit, creating some distance between them.

“I’m afraid I have no idea, Inspector. I’ll have to investigate this matter thoroughly,” she announced, moving towards him again, steadfastly ignoring his attempts at reclaiming his personal space.

“Phry-ne…” his low baritone caressed her ears.

She smoothed down his now slightly wrinkled lapels. “Does this count as a ‘display of affection’?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

“I shall take that to be a rhetorical question.”

“Hmmm. Stubborn man, I see,” she nodded, mostly to herself. “What about this?” Before he knew what was happening, she’d leaned in and took his earlobe into her hot mouth and started _sucking_ it, just the way he liked it. And she knew it, too.

“You damn well know it does,” he ground out, his traitorous hands coming to rest on her hips even as he tilted his head forward a little, giving her better access.

Her nimble fingers had loosened his tie and top shirt buttons, and now she was moving her  clever tongue lower, licking along the column of his exposed throat.

“How about this?” she whispered against his damp skin.

_“Yesss,”_ he breathed, his fingers sinking into the soft, supple flesh of her arse. 

“Yes?”

“No! I mean, _yes_ , it counts, and _no_ , you should not be doing--”

Jack lost his train of thought entirely when she cupped his already aroused interest through the fabric of his pressed trousers. He jerked against her hand, stifling a groan by biting his lip.

“And this? Is this ‘affectionate’?” she asked, massaging his hardening length with her fingers.

“I think you’ve moved well beyond that now,” he growled.

“Oh, things are certainly moving, Jack,” she quipped.

“ _Phryne_ …” he groaned, closing his eyes. He _wanted_ her to continue, but _needed_ her to stop. His men were right outside his office, which wasn’t even locked!

“Phryne… _gods_. Phryne, you have to stop,” he moaned, hating how he was already coming undone at the seams with only the slightest provocation.

With a final pat to his groin, Phryne suddenly stepped back, leaving him feeling cold and bereft. His body, already hating him for it, longed for her touch.

“You’re right, Inspector. No fraternizing at the office. That would be _highly_ unprofessional,” she conceded, a mischievous twinkle dancing in her eyes.

Jack looked at Phryne with utter confusion and disbelief, then looked down at the tell-tale bulge at the front of his trousers. _Speaking of unprofessional…_

Phryne was already turning away, but not before he spotted the smug look on her face. _Oh, but this would not do at all._ She opened his office door, barely giving Jack time to dart behind his desk in an attempt to hide his… professionalism.

“Thank you, Inspector, for that _analysis_. I shall expect you promptly at six to go over all of the evidence,” she exclaimed cheerily so Collins was sure to hear it, though her face expressed an emotion of a different kind altogether.

Jack narrowed his eyes at her, then tucked his chair in further as his cock throbbed at the images ‘popping’ up in his mind. He couldn’t believe she’d beat him at his own game. Then again, he had somehow managed to uphold his ‘no kissing at the office’ rule amid of all of this, and that should count for something.

Ever since meeting Phryne Fisher, he knew it was more important to count his wins, rather than his losses.

Right before Phryne closed the door behind her, she blew him a kiss.

_Damn it._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Bank’s closed!”: what you tell someone to stop making out._


End file.
